The Hindi-Bindi Club (19 page)

P
reity, Eric, and the kids arrive the day after Christmas, filling the house with laughter and joy. Sandeep and I relish our roles as
Nanaji
and
Naniji,
playing with our grandchildren. Though we wish they lived closer to us, I know Preity wouldn’t like me breathing down her neck more than I already do! Can I help it? It’s my duty as her mother to instruct her, correct her. If I don’t, who will?

For dinner, I serve up requested favorites:
murgh makhani
—butter chicken—tender chunks of chicken breast in a tomato-cream sauce.
Chhole,
a kind of chickpea chili Preity calls “Punjabi comfort food,” delicious year-round, but especially satisfying on cold winter nights like tonight. And
sarson da saag
on
makki di roti,
another winter favorite of Sandeep’s and mine since childhood.
Sarson da saag
is tender mustard greens, spinach, and spices that I cook either very slowly over very low heat or in a pressure cooker. We eat it with
makki di roti,
a soft, golden griddle bread made with cornmeal and wheat flour. Sometimes, I’ll add grated radish or fresh
kasuri methi
(fenugreek) or cilantro to the dough for a little variety, but even plain
makki di roti,
piping hot off the griddle with a pat of butter, tastes out of this world.

After dinner, I unbutton my pants when no one’s looking, sticking out my tongue and biting it in embarrassment. If I don’t watch it, I’ll outgrow my new nightgown before I get a chance to wear it!

After Lina and Jack are tucked in bed, Preity and I put up our feet and unwind in the family room while the boys watch TV downstairs. The angle and light combination makes me notice her face is fuller, her cheekbones less prominent.

“Have you gained weight?” I ask. “You look like you have.”

She shrugs. “Don’t know, don’t care. I stopped weighing myself.”

“
Eh!
Don’t say that! You don’t want to be one of those women who lets herself go after marriage. I know winters are tough in your frozen tundra. That’s why God made tread-mills. Preity? Are you listening? What did I just say?”

She parrots back all my words. “Duly noted.”

“Good, and while we’re on the subject of harsh winters…. Your skin’s showing some wear and tear. Do you use a night cream? Make sure you invest in the best moisturizers,
beta
. Otherwise, you’ll be looking at premature wrinkles.”

“We wouldn’t want that.”

“No, who would? Add moisturizer to your resolutions, hmm?” At her pointed stare, I say, “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

She gives a tight smile. “Oh, no reason.”

The next night, we find ourselves in the same spot after putting the kids to bed.

“Say, Mom? Do you, by chance, remember the boy I met in Goa?”

I blink. Where did
that
come from? Keeping a straight face, I murmur, “Vaguely,” though I remember perfectly.

As if a mother forgets her daughter nearly giving her a heart attack.

From upstairs, she retrieves a white plastic bag. Her show-and-tell: an illustrated children’s book her
Mussalman
boyfriend made her. “I wonder what ever happened to him…. We never did say good-bye….” She doesn’t mask an under-current of accusation:
You saw to that
.

Hai Rabba,
why this bad trip down Memory Lane?

“I’m thinking about looking him up,” she says.

Okay, trip’s over. “Preity, enough nonsense. You aren’t eighteen anymore. You have a wonderful life. Great marriage, children, career. What more could you want?” I hold open the plastic bag, direct her to pack up her little storybook and forget about it. “Now, on to more pleasant subjects.” I straighten my clothing, fluff my hair, smile. “Kiran looks fantastic. Did I tell you she works out regularly? Yoga, weights, cardio. Of course, being a doctor, she’s health conscious. Isn’t it great she’s home?”

“Yeah. Great.”

“Is that all the enthusiasm you can muster for one of your best friends?”

“Uh, Kiran and I were never best friends.”

“Sure you were. You were inseparable.”

“No, that would be you and Meenal Auntie and Uma Auntie. Kiran tolerated me, at best. In case you didn’t notice, she didn’t like me.”

I frown. I don’t know what’s gotten into my angel daughter tonight. “Of course she liked you. Everyone likes you. What’s not to like?”

Preity looks away. “You know, just because you choose not to talk about something doesn’t make it go away.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her eyes pin me. “Arsallan. I’m talking about
Arsallan
.”

“Beta.”
I smile, shifting uncomfortably. Is it hot in here? “Don’t be difficult, please.”

“You’re the one being difficult—”

“Preity!” Blood rushes to my cheeks. “Since when do you talk to your mother like this?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just…” She holds out a hand in appeal, then drops it on the storybook with a thump. “You always change the subject when it gets awkward for you. You shut
me
down when
you’ve
had enough. I wish…You’re my mother, my
one and only
mother. I want to be able to talk to you,
really
talk. Not just about my figure and complexion—”

“You’re upset about what I said last night.”

“Honestly, I don’t care. That’s my point. There are so many other, more important things in life. Why exclude those—”

“Fine-fine-fine. You’re making my head hurt.” I rub my throbbing temples. “You want to talk. Go ahead. Talk. But first, get me some aspirin.” I drop my head back against the cushions, already regretting this.

M
y daughter thinks I’m prejudiced.
Prejudiced!
What an oversimplification!

Hindu–Muslim conflicts date back centuries, to the time Muslim invaders conquered Indian kingdoms—looting, raping, killing; desecrating and destroying Hindu temples, erecting mosques on the foundations, sometimes using the same stones.

“You know how a volcano can lie dormant for years, then erupt with little notice?” I say, trying to explain a complex subject in terms she’ll understand. “That’s how it is with Hindu–Muslim communal relations. The threat of violence is always there, lava bubbling beneath the surface. Partition taught me there are lines that separate certain communities. Lines that cannot be crossed.”

Preity shakes her head. “We cry the same tears, bleed the same blood—”

“I didn’t make the rules,” I say. “They are what they are.”

“If everyone in this country believed that, women wouldn’t have the right to vote, and we’d still have racial segregation. If everyone in India believed it, only descendants of Brahmin priests would be educated. And just the men, at that.”

She’s comparing apples and onions. I tell her so, but I’m wasting my breath.

“God gave us brains, Mom. If rules are unjust, we should change them. Didn’t Akbar the Great abolish unfair taxes on non-Muslims?” she says about the sixteenth-century Mughal emperor’s revocation of nonbeliever
jizya
and pilgrimage taxes. “Wasn’t his favorite wife—the mother of his successor—a Hindu? While Christian Inquisitions and witch hunts were terrorizing Europe, an Islamic emperor in India was making policies to respect and protect
all
religions and treat believers of
all
faiths equally.”

“Akbar was an exception. Have you heard of Aurangzeb? In comparison to
him,
Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden are pussycats.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

I can’t help but smile at her example from Indian history. “You finally got around to reading the books Dad and I got you.”

“Those, and a lot more. I just needed time.”

Sandeep and I tried our best to plug holes in our children’s school curriculums, but it proved an uphill struggle to squeeze in
our
lessons with
their
lessons. We couldn’t deny their need to master the civilization and cultures they encountered firsthand every time they left the house. Immediacy took priority. It makes me so proud to know they
did
expand their scope as we hoped, in their own time, and in their own way. Though at the moment, it appears a mixed blessing….

“My studies confirm what I know to be true,” Preity says. “Discrimination’s always wrong. Violence in the name of God is always wrong. And when mankind takes a wrong turn and strays from these fundamental truths, we need to correct our course.” She rattles off more examples: caste discrimination, female education and inheritance rights, child marriage, dowry, bride burning, widow remarriage, and
sati
—the now outlawed practice of a widow self-immolating on her husband’s funeral pyre, a supposed act of piety. “From east to west, ancient to present, people from all different backgrounds have crossed those lines, those
artificial barriers,
and unified in common fights for humanity.
That
is what I’ve learned.”

Wah-wah.
What a performance. Give the girl a round of applause. She, not Tarun, should have been the lawyer in the family. She never could back down from a perceived injustice. When she was five, she saw a mother spanking her child in the supermarket. All the way home, she pleaded for me to call the police, arguing about the rights of the child. It’s not fair, she cried until she went hoarse. If I
didn’t
shut her down, she’d carry on indefinitely from her soap box. Wind her up, watch her go….

“Getting back to Arsallan,” she says.

“Hai Rabba.”
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead.

“I’m going to ask around.”

“Hai Rabba!”
I feel pain in my chest.

“I’ll start with Riya-
didi,
see if anyone—”

“HAI RABBA!”
I’m breathing heavy now, sweat on my brow, armpits damp. “You’ll do NO SUCH THING. What would people think? My married daughter chasing after a married man. A
Mussalman
. Can you just imagine the talk?”

“I’m not chasing him. And who cares about gossip-mongers—”

“
I
care.
Your father
cares.
You
should care. You have a family reputation to protect, too. If your husband finds out—”

“I told Eric.”

I wince and cover my eyes. Did I drop her on her head when she was little? Did she crack her coconut open? Did her common sense leak out with the milk? “
Never
talk to your husband about other men,” I say what should be obvious to a woman with a fully functioning brain. “Husbands get jealous, too.”

Preity just bats a hand, dismissive. “Jealous of what? I have nothing to hide. Eric and I don’t have secrets.”

“
Humph.
Keep this up, and you will.”

I don’t understand this younger generation. A wife talks to her husband as if he’s her girlfriend. Spouses expect to be best friends. It’s unnatural!

I get up and sit beside my daughter, grip her shoulders, and say firmly, “Listen to me. I’m your mother. I brought you into this world. I know you better than anyone, better than you know yourself, and
I
know what’s best for you. Hindu–Muslim relations aside, reputations aside, do
not
jeopardize your marriage. You have a
lot
to lose, and I don’t want to see you, or anyone else, get hurt. There are people who can handle affairs.
You
aren’t one of them. You’re Sita, not Radha.”

In the Hindu epics, both Sita and Radha have great loves. Sita’s is a conjugal relationship with her husband Ram, while Radha’s is an adulterous relationship with Krishna. The epics romanticize both couples, but in reality…Show me a society that openly accepts the Krishnas and Radhas of the world.

“Affair?”
Preity sputters. “Who said
anything
about an affair? I’m in love with my husband. I’d never cheat on him. And Arsallan is hardly Ravan.” Ravan, villain of the Ram-Sita-Ravan triangle, tricks Sita into leaving her safety zone, then kidnaps her and tries to woo her into falling in love with him. “Trust me, Mom. He wasn’t
at all
the presumptuous, lecherous type you warned me about. The kind who compartmentalizes women as madonnas or whores, pure or impure. Who can’t conceive of drinking, dating, bikini-wearing females being
good girls
with our own standards and rules of etiquette. Please. I wouldn’t give a guy like that the time of day.” She huffs, lifting her chin. “Arsallan was one of the enlightened. Romantic
and
respectful. A perfect gentleman. And a devoted family man—you’d agree if you’d seen him. He was so good with his nieces and nephews. I’m sure he’s a wonderful husband and father.”

I sigh. For all Preity’s reading, my whimsical daughter lives in an idealistic world of right and wrong, good and bad, innocent until proven guilty—I can just hear her arguing that poor Ravan was misunderstood—and God bless her naiveté, I want her to stay in that nice, safe world. But it’s my job, my duty as her mother to warn her about the big, bad realities in life.

“I’m sure he takes excellent care of his family,” I say. “Family’s very important in Indian culture. A family man will never leave his wife, break up the family unit, but Preity…” How do I phrase this? “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t run around with other women, discreetly, on the side. Trust
me
. The sweet, innocent girl he knew has grown into a mature, desirable woman. He’d take one look at you, assume you’re a loose American, and want an affair.”

“Oh, brother.” Preity rolls her eyes. “The Hindi-Bindi Club’s been watching too many Bollywood flicks.”

She doesn’t understand, but what more can I possibly say?

I have always tried to be open, frank with Preity, as the women in my family were when I was growing up. But there were limits to mother–daughter candor then, and there still are, as far as I’m concerned, lines that can’t be crossed, circumstances in which a mother shouldn’t talk to her daughter as a friend, a peer. A daughter can have any number of friends, but as Preity pointed out, she has one and only one (birth) mother. A mother can’t forget she serves a different,
higher
purpose than a mere friend. Maybe it’s the way I was brought up, but that’s how I see it. I wasn’t raised to be a best friend to my daughter; I was raised to present her a role model.